Page 15 of The Witch Queen

“If I’m your ambassador,” she starts, thoughtful, “does that mean everyone has to do what I say?”

“I…suppose it does.”

Rosemary grins, mischievous, and then darts away into the village, already bellowing orders. I laugh, shaking my head at her.

“I’m sorry,” I say to her mother. “I might have created a mess.”

“Not at all, Majesty,” she replies. “It’s good to see her smile again.”

“Again?”

The Dwarvian woman presses her lips together.

“Rosemary’s father, my husband, passed away a few years back,” she begins. “He was caught in the forest, hunting where he shouldn’t have been. They captured him and returned him to the palace for a bounty. The court sentenced him to service in the Northern Mines.”

She doesn’t need to explain what must have happened after that.

As a witchling, I didn’t learn much about the Guilds. In fact, the Dwarves were vilified in my history lessons, painted as having abandoned the witches. Leaving them to suffer under the king’s edict while the Dwarves themselves lived in relative safety. But, like most of my early teachings, those stories were carefully tailored to suit the covens’ narrative. Through Roland, I learned that the White King issued a separate edict for the Dwarves, one that bound their Guilds to the service of the Crown and levied steep punishments against all who defied it.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to the Dwarvian woman, meaning it.

“Youdon’t have anything to apologize for, Majesty,” she assures me. “Quite the opposite, what with all you’ve done. Returning our villages. Removing our Guild Marks. You’ll have our gratitude for that, always.”

I smile at her. Whatever I did for the Dwarves isn’t enough to make up for what they endured under the Crown, but it’s a start. A new beginning—for all of us. Malum rumbles behind my sternum.

“Right, then,” Roland says. “We really do need to be going.”

The woman bobs a last curtsy, then heads toward Rosemary, who has a gaggle of younger Dwarves clustered around her as she shows off her gift.

Are you the real queen?The young Dwarf’s question resurfaces in my mind, along with the message at the Sanctum.

“Roland,” I ask as we walk, “have you seen any Followers around here?”

“Followers?” He arches an eyebrow. “Oh aye. They come ’round for dinner.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Do you find yourself amusing?”

“Most of the time,” he replies with a shrug. “And ’course we haven’t seen that lot. Why?”

“My steward believes that they may be responsible for some recent disturbances,” I explain. “That they’re rallying around someone they claim is Meira.”

“Bah.” He waves the idea away. “I wouldn’t pay any mind to the mortals and their superstitions. One year, I heard of a group of them worshipping a moldy loaf of bread.”

He’s likely right. The people of Riven are nothing if not fickle and susceptible. And Meira never actually existed to begin with. Still, that same prickling feeling from the carriage tingles at the nape of my neck. Another crow calls and I glance up to find five of them sitting on the tree branches above me:

A warning.

—

Roland leads me the rest of the way through the village and into the forest. The entrance to the Mine soon looms ahead of us, marked by two stone Dwarves rising out of the craggy mountainside. Each statue holds a lit torch, the firelight gleaming against their gilded armor. Roland fishes his ring of keys from his belt and jams one into the stone between the sculptures. Rock crunches as doors begin to carve themselves into the mountain, each engraved with twin images of kneeling Dwarves. The handles are fashioned as golden pickaxes.

Roland motions for me to follow as he pushes his way inside, the hinges groaning as the huge door opens. Given that the Mine is housedwithin a mountain, I expect the air to be dank and close, but it smells of earth and cool water and a hint of pine. The ceiling arches high above my head, beams carved to resemble roaring mythical beasts—griffins and dragons and others I don’t recognize. Rows of torches are held by bronze sconces sculpted as Dwarvian hands. Their light flickers over sweeping murals depicting what I assume to be Dwarvian history: Lines of Dwarves headed into a Mine. Another Dwarf, a woman, sitting on a throne-like chair, the pin marking her as Head of the Guilds affixed to her chest.

Roland turns us down another tunnel. Several other Dwarves pass by, pushing carts laden with glittering minerals or various types of stone. Two Dwarves nod at Roland as they steer an entire rack of gleaming, freshly honed swords into another chamber.

“Those’ll be part of your next weapons shipment,” Roland says, thumbing toward the cart. “Should be ready in another week or so.”

“That’s good news,” I reply. “We’ll be needing them.”